Chapter Text
He screamed.
For days, weeks, months—time melted into a slurry of nothing but heart-piercing pain, pain, pain, pain, pain. His throat never grew raw—or perhaps he was never actually screaming in the first place. Perhaps his mind had yet to catch up to his body. It couldn’t be—she couldn’t have—mist and tears blocked his vision.
This was her last chance, HIS last chance to bring her back. His Isolde… he chanced a look at where she stood moments ago. Empty. He wanted to scream all over again. She was gone.
Patience, a voice in his head scolded. Once you escape, you’ll find another way, one to bring her back. He clung to that hope foolishly, desperately, because he was still the King, and… yes. Yes… he’d find another way. Never mind that centuries of searching it would take. He had endured it once before, and he could endure it all again. It wouldn’t do for him to accept her fate as it were. With, or without her essence, he would put her back together. He had to be able to pull it off.
He had to.
He forgot his previous promise.
The words seemed to mean little after so much time, his face stretched in a permanent expression of anger. Then again, anger was all he could feel. How dare they! Upstarts, fools, idiots… he couldn’t remember the faces of the group that fought against him. They mattered little to him at the time, but how he wished he’d paid more attention to them. He’d taint his memory of her face with theirs, if it meant he remembered who he’d have to hunt. Only two of that ragtag group felt any sort of imprint in his mind.
The dark one, gold in her hair and his—HIS—Black Mist in her eyes. She had a shard of his beloved clinging to her. He relished in the memory of reclaiming it. Like ripping a gem from honey, their very essence felt intertwined. He despised the fact that his love had been bound so tightly with another. Isolde had to have hated it. He would see to it that she was avenged for her plight, having to have been bound like that.
The other one that he could remember the face of… she felt like her. He vaguely remembered her from before—before his love was lost. Only vaguely. Was she a wretch? Perhaps one that looked jealously upon his love. No, no. He recalled his love’s fondness. Did that have to do with the other one? Perhaps an old friend of hers, one that he deemed unworthy to remain with her. A coldness settled in his core. He knew it, he told her before, that the world was cruel, that everyone would turn their talons on her, everyone but him. He would never hurt her, he’d promised. And of course, this faux friend of hers from before would do the same. She was so much worse than a wretch, the other one he remembered. To turn his own beloved as a blade against him—to hoard her essence and refuse Isolde her last chance at rebirth...
How dare she. HOW DARE SHE? He roared an oath then and there: His Isolde may be gone, but the second he was freed, he’d chase those WRETCHES to the ends of Valoran and take their lives.
Then, only then, might he join her in rest.
Him for her.
He cast his eyes skyward and was met with a stone-grey ceiling.
He recalled joking with Isolde once, boasting his strength and ability, praising her beauty. Beyond what the gods could comprehend, he’d called the two of them. She had laughed then, a mischievous light in her eyes, as she told him to stop, lest they actually drew the ire of the gods. “Gods?” He had said. “Gods hold no power to the love that binds us!”
Yet, here he was, looking to the ceiling and considering prayer. He had scoffed in the face of faith many times before, but now… He was losing track of time, and running out of patience, and he was all he had left. It was an option he’d never considered.
The Ruined King, The Prince of Camavor; he believed, for so long, that he couldn’t die. That he wouldn’t have to die, that he and his legions alone were enough to get her back. But now… a silent prayer lingered on his tongue. Him for her. She was his life’s goal, his everything, and nothing—nothing, in all of Valoran would be worth going on without her. Hadn’t he already accepted his demise? He’d sworn he’d rest with her after he killed the wretches just a few days ago… maybe months? Years? It didn’t feel so long ago. Anyhow, his life, his soul, his—everything, really; surely he could afford a gamble with the gods one last time. A final bargain and an assured end to his reign. So, so much of him, and more. All for her.
He whispered a reverent prayer to the uncaring gods, more begging than praying.
"I'll try."
He remembers trying a lot for her. Saying those words a lot to her. Trying to be patient, trying to be kind. Learning to care, to comfort, to listen, to love. Every second stretched out like an eternity for him in his cage, so he had time to think.
He doesn't think he was very good at trying. Perhaps if he'd tried harder to get her back, pushed harder, done more... maybe then, he wouldn't have been in this situation. Curse his confidence, curse his pride, curse it all to hell. Still, as he mutters those words (at least, he's sure he mutters them. He doesn't care anyhow), he hesitates. He already tried. So much. So painfully much. Should he... should he even keep going?
Perhaps the ones who defeated him so very long ago was right. Perhaps this was all a futile attempt. Somehow, that disheartens him even more.
It would've been much easier, he reasons, if he'd just joined her in the afterlife, all those years ago. Perhaps it would've been easier—and happier still, if they never met at all. She could've lived a happy, normal life then, not dragged into his court's power plays and politics. His heart pangs at the thought of never knowing love, and he chooses to focus on the former thoughts. One where they spend an eternity of an afterlife together. He reminisces, ignoring the nag at the back of his mind, ignoring that useless, useless drive to try. He daydreams of her perfect body, her bright smile. If he thinks hard enough, he can imagine her voice, gently soothing him, promising him that yes, she loves him, and yes, he's done enough.
Perhaps if he dreams for long enough, it will become true.
Her eyes were blue.
Blue like the endless skies, full of life and ever-changing. Blue like the oceans around Camavor, swirling and lively and sparkling in the sunlight. Blue… like the wretched Mists that held him in place, that taunted him, that robbed him of his everything, the only thing he ever wanted—no, needed. He loathed the color, always reminding him of his failure to grasp what he was so close to having, always mocking him as it chained him in stasis. Yet, he loved it more than anything.
The feelings battled within him, doing nothing to soothe his aching heart. It reminded him of her, the color. He was so sure it was her favorite; he’d bought countless flowers of the shade for her before she’d been unjustly taken. So why—why would she… he opened his eyes. The Hallowed Mists surrounded him, ghostly and ever-present. It was almost as if… the way the mist hung in the air like thread, that vibrant shade of blue… it was almost as if she was the one who kept him chained there—
He dismissed the thought immediately. She would never have even imagined doing such a thing. His court were a den of snakes, and she was nothing more than his little mouse. Sweet and innocent… no, to blame her for his chains was slander on her name. Again, he tried to struggle in his chains. Dust had settled on him thickly, like a blanket, and his efforts wrought him nothing.
He considered screaming—then grimaced as phantom pains raked his throat. No, he’d already been yelling for far too long. Perhaps… he closed his eyes. Perhaps rest? His stomach churned anxiously at the thought of doing nothing. He’d be more battle-ready if he rested, a part of his mind argued. Rest would leave him vulnerable, another warred. His mind wandered, weighing his options. Now brought up, the idea of rest was… sweet. Enticing.
His mind warred with itself, even as he drifted off to sleep.
She hated him.
Every fiber (hah) of her being was screaming when she approached his cell, now just a dusty field covered in Hallow mist. Even encased in her mist, Viego's magical energies radiated like waves from a tsunami, threatening to knock her over. She thanked Targon that he wasn’t straining as hard as he could against her cage; she barely had the energy to get there, much less keep up the centuries-old prison. Limping, she made her way to his side and delicately sat on a mound of stone that used to be a step. Looking at him… she remembered, once, when he looked at her Maker like that. Furious. She remembered how quickly her Maker’s fear had turned to worry and how she placated him as if he were a child. She wished she were so brave. Shamed as she was to admit it… he scared her. She hated him, yes, but this close… she could almost feel his clawed gauntlet digging into the back of her neck. She shuddered and forced her gaze back up, meeting his eyes. It had been so long since she’d seen him. She honestly had tried to forget. But now… now, she needed his help. At least—she’d promised help, and his was the only choice she had. Viego… she hated to admit it, but he was strong. So damningly, annoyingly, strong.
And she needed strong, so she got to work, unraveling the Hallowed prison she had made one thousand years ago.